


A Song from the Valley of the Pipes

by Once a Bard (bossyluigi)



Series: DnD: An Anthology [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, My sweet babies!, Please be proud of me, spent a week coming up with lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bossyluigi/pseuds/Once%20a%20Bard
Summary: “It won’t take that long to guess.”“You’re still thinking of leaving, right?”This is the third in an anthology of short stories highlighting original DnD characters and the stories built around them, their backstories, and their adventures.These were written for NaNoWriMo 2019.
Relationships: Original D&D Character(s)/Original D&D Character(s), Original Dungeons & Dragons Character(s) & Original Dungeons & Dragons Character(s)
Series: DnD: An Anthology [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034781
Kudos: 1





	A Song from the Valley of the Pipes

Dê Tumu u dê Siimpiina (The Valley of the Pipes) was, without a doubt, a village dedicated to the art of the song. Its secluded nature survived as a prime breeding ground for fabrications on a grandiose scale. The stories of the generations that came before recycled themselves in the form of enigmatic tall tales or in excitable recountings through music. This alone formed the culture of the first settlers: The Stormpipes. 

Around a thousand generations of Stormpipes had dedicated their lives to telling and retelling the stories that had formed the home they now knew and grew to admire, starting with the oldest living of Stormpipe blood: the Master Wordweaver. Every first son born to the Stormpipes accepted the responsibility of weaving from the moment of conception to the moment of his first cry, they were sound to be celebrated. Strong lungs, a healthy set of vocal cords, and future education in music theory, instrumentation, songwriting, and performance readied each and every son for their ascension to the position of Wordweaver.

Other rites and rituals came along with the Stormpipe bloodline, including the sacred rite of the ‘Iidriil’ or ‘loved one’. The rite itself began the moment after the birth of the newest Stormpipe son with the offering of the “lunthâ” or “balance” to the infant’s left ear in the form of a single beaded earring. Dates were recorded in anticipation for the arrival of the ‘Iidriil’ exactly half a year later. 

The search began immediately.

Midwives traveled throughout the village and those neighboring in search of the child that was to be the ‘Iidriil’. Nurses would tend to those destined to bring forth daughters around the half-year and made sure to report back the moment the first child was born. For those who delivered the next ‘Iidriil’, the occasion was a call for celebration in the form of the second “lunthâ” piercing her right ear. The earrings stood as the connection between the two as fate had ordained.

From that moment on, the two children would be raised alongside one another. Music became their pride and joy and their skills were fine-tuned to match the other to create the perfect duet of musicians. 

The rites and sanctity of the rearing of both the young Stormpipe and his ‘Iidriil’, for the most part, would progress smoothly and without much complication, however, that cannot entirely be said about one Orwin Stormpipe. 

Like his forefathers, Orwin was born into the loving and musical household of his parents, Carmine and Ethal Stormpipe, and his older sister Vita. In later years, they would welcome a second daughter, Cella, but not until Orwin had aged a few years. 

His youth consisted of lullabies telling stories of heroic gnomish fighters, magical lands, fearsome dragons, and the idea that all was possible through determination and the support of family and friends. It was never difficult for him to dream of his own feats of heroism, oftentimes speaking openly about his desire to wander the world in search of adventurous tales to recount rather than recite. The world was vast, the possibilities were endless, and what good could come of painting pictures through song rather than seeking out the first-hand accounts of the legacies to be kept alive? 

For a secluded town, the idea of one of their own, especially one destined to continue the traditions of the village, was nothing short of frightening. The world beyond what they knew had been warped by their storytelling, their exaggerations, and years of slight alterations that in no way resembled the original telling. The world beyond their valley was nothing more than a mystery. Anything and everything awaited Orwin but allowing him to go off on his own without knowing the consequences of unpreparedness could cost him and his legacy. 

Still, he was fairly young so his desires were viewed as those of a schoolboy: purely fantasies.

Following in the footsteps of musicians past, it only made sense that the curiosity of what was beyond the mountains would call to him. It had called to his father, his father’s father, and his father before him. Each one had nipped the temptation in the bud, some easier than others. 

However, one individual saw promise in the young boy. The current village elder, three generations before Orwin, saw fit to speak with him about the dreams that called to him.

Aldritch Stormpipe, a man well into his early 400’s, had called the boy to speak with him. There was no song, there was no storytelling or anecdotal conversion, only a conversation over lunch. They rarely ever spent time together apart from village events, holidays, and festivals. To sit and spend time with him in such a way was an honor as well as a privilege. 

“Son,” His voice, despite its age, still hummed with a familiar tenor the could easily soothe the entire population of a village and encourage them to sing along. “You’ve been worrying your parents sick with all this talk of leaving, did you know that?” The gnome’s bearded head is canted towards the boy, almost teasingly. “They came to me and asked me to talk to you about it. I’d like to know what you think of all this before I start inputting my two-sense.” 

Orwin, having recently turned thirty (an age still on the younger end of a gnome’s lifespan) had been sitting nervously across the small table, eyes affixed on the lunch spread that had been prepared by his great-grandmother rather than the man across from him. 

“There really is no need to fear speaking your mind when you’re with me, you know. Our family is built on a generation of goofballs who thought it best to raise a legacy of other goofballs. Besides, I already know what you want to say, I’d much rather hear it from you instead of your parents… sticking their noses in your business-- pah!” 

“If you already know, then what’s the point in telling you?” 

“What’s the point? What’s the point!?” The elder jumped from his seat, practically standing up on his chair. “My boy, the point is that you tell me what you want so that I can grant it to you! One of the best things about being old like me is that people have to listen to what you say. It comes with the territory of having been in this position for as long as I have. If I’m on my way out, then what’s wrong with breaking a few rules every now and again, especially now that times are changing. My successors will each bring something new to the role of Wordweaver, and what I’d like for you to bring, when your time comes, are your own stories.” With a thump, he collapsed back into his chair. “You know as well as I do that telling the same stories and singing the same songs over and over and over can drive you insane. Keeping tradition is one thing, but doing what you need to do to keep the art of storytelling alive is something different.” 

The two sat silently, occasionally reaching for a small sandwich, some fresh fruit, or reaching to sip lightly at their drinks. For generations, no Stormpipe had left to travel the world. No Stormpipe had added to tradition apart from the stories and songs they wrote themselves about seemingly nothing at all. What was the harm in encouraging change? 

“Then I would like to travel.” At last, Orwin found his words. “I would like to travel like the gnomes in the stories, to document my travels, and add to the legacy of the Stormpipes.” He spoke softly at first, only gaining his courage the more he thought about the prospect of being out in the world. The ideas of meeting the fascinating characters of the world, hearing their stories, spending an evening in different villages, towns, and cities every other day thrilled him. Of course, he would want to return and share. He would want to return to his “Iidriil” and practice the Muse’s Rite, singing the song of the first Muse with his new bride. The tradition had never been something he aimed to turn his back on, in fact, he aimed to embrace it, to build upon it, and make it his own. That was what this was all about. “I want to see the world.” 

That was enough confirmation for the elderly gnome. The breath he had been holding came whistling out in a tune akin to a cockatiel’s singing or the chirping of a canary. With newfound joy and relief, he took a mug in his hand and toasted it to the other. “And so you shall.”

Talking of dreams and ambitions of the world beyond the valley overtook the two of them. Speculations about things like the actual size of a half-giant to the texture of a dragon’s scales were heavily discussed until the sun began to fade beneath the tips of the mountaintops. If Orwin could remember correctly, this had been the first time he’d spoken honestly with a member of his family about the hopes he had for himself. With the traditions suffocating any true opportunity for change, what was the point of educating him in the creative when he himself wasn’t allowed to be? Something about his great-grandfather’s understanding was enough to ignite the fire in him once more. 

He bids goodnight to both his great-grandfather and great-grandmother, thanking them for the meal, the invitation to stay and talk, and the blessings they sent him home with. A weight lifted itself from his shoulders, one he’d been harboring since he was very small. It’s one that his parents had never fully understood or even his “Iidriil”, Kaliope. She had grown up with him, understood him more than anyone, but never saw the appeal of leaving, even if it would only be for a short time. To make matters worse, her attempts at preventing change and convincing him to stay came in the form of heartfelt pleas. Things like, “Please don’t leave me here on my own.” or “Please don’t give me a reason to worry about you.” were the common go-to’s that she spoke the most. While it broke his heart to hear, he wasn’t worried. He considered it something as simple as taking a trip. It was a journey he anticipated returning from, but any insistence at that fact was brushed aside for more pressing concerns. 

The walk back to his home was relatively silent. The casual conversations of families in their homes, the occasional thrum of a song from off down side-streets, even in the quietest of hours, there were still sounds that brought the world to life. That alone was one of the things that made the valley as magical a place as it was. Song carried over from public events to the intimacy of the family home. Some day, he would teach his own children with Kaliope at his side. Everything in life he wanted to do with her, even this far-fetched idea of wandering the world. Convincing her to come would never work, but convincing her to let him leave, now that he had earned his great-grandfather’s blessing, might yield better results. 

Sleep never came to him that evening. Thoughts buzzed with an uncontrollable viciousness. His departure, while speaking over the actual possibility of this all coming to pass, would be some time within the days to come. Readying his supplies, preparing his mind, and seeking out the blessings of his immediate family, and Kalliope, were his priorities. Speaking to them would not only take a great deal of courage but a great deal of strength on his part as well as theirs. 

The morning was pure anguish. Eating meals with his family was tormenting. Sitting in the gardens alongside Kaliope to practice did nothing but leave him with a heavy heart and an overabundance of nerves. 

“Orwin?” She had stopped singing and was staring wide-eyed at the blank expression he had plastered across his face. “Is everything okay?” 

A few hurried blinks snapped him out of whatever trance he had been in. “Of course”

“Liar. If you were truly alright then you wouldn’t have been playing the same chord for the past few minutes.” She cocked her brow and pressed her lips into a thin line. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s on your mind or am I going to have to start guessing?” Even if he didn’t say anything, it was fairly obvious what the problem was. Something about her, whether it was some kind of magic or the fact that she knew him like the back of her, made it easy to figure him out without much difficulty. It was one of the many things about her that lit sparks of affection whenever he thought about it. 

“It won’t take that long to guess.” 

“You’re still thinking of leaving, right?” 

Orwin sighed, letting go of a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Of course, he had been thinking of leaving. Not only was he thinking of leaving, but he would be heading out in the coming days regardless. Any well wishes that his family offered him would be taken with an open and gracious heart. Anything else would be left to be discussed upon his return, however long it would take. “The Wordweaver’s given his blessing for me to leave within the coming days. My things are nearly packed and I will be heading out by the end of the week.” 

“When were you planning on telling me? Don’t you think I deserved to know?” There was a moment of hesitation before she reached for his hand, taking it firmly in her own. “I… I know how much you want this for yourself and you know how hard I’ve tried to urge you to stay here, but… why did you wait so long to share your good news?” 

Good news? Had she really accepted it? He furrowed his brows, desperately trying to figure out if she really meant what she had said. This was the woman who had, for the longest time, begged and pleaded for him to stay. This was the woman who had worked herself to tears at all the worst-case scenarios that could arise while he was away. She worried tirelessly about things like food or if he would make any friends, or if he would remember to look after himself. Things like too much alcohol worried her. The life-threatening creatures that he might not be prepared to deal with might think to harm him or even kill him. If he was to never return home again, how would she know? So many variables would be out of her control, so why would she give in after working so hard to convince him? 

“I didn’t think you’d see it as good news.” 

She squeezed his hand as gently as she had taken it. “For me, it might not be great news, but the better news is to know that you’ve been granted something that you’ve wanted. My happiness has always stemmed from your happiness. I want you to know that.” Her lips curled into something akin to a smile. The most she could do to support him was to see things from his perspective. If it were her, she was positive that he would do the same. “In fact, I’d be more than content if you sent me letters every now and again about where you were or what you were doing. I’d love to be the first to hear all the incredible stories you intend to bring back for us.” 

If his heart could swell any larger than it already felt, he was almost certain he would die. Tears filled his eyes within mere moments and before too long he had substituted the mandolin in his arms for her. It had to have been incredibly hard, but it was a sacrifice he would never forget. His hold tightened, practically squeezing the life from her, but wishing nothing but to convey the gratitude he held towards her, not only for the things she had done for him, but for the person she was, the significance she held, and the love that overflowed for her. 

“Thank you.” 

Moments felt like an eternity, but they sat there in silence, holding one another as if it were the last time. It wasn’t meant to be, but with the uncertainty and mystery that is the world, who could be sure? 

The next few days consisted of Orwin desperately scavenging through his belongings in search of things he might need, only to have Kaliope swoop in to make adjustments, select new things, and promptly pack them away where he couldn’t find them. A few good shirts didn’t make the cut in exchange for ones that were deemed appropriate to get dirty. While he was emptying cupboards in search of a tankard to serve as a makeshift waterskin until he could find and purchase one, she secretly restrung his mandolin with new strings, making sure that each was perfectly tuned for the moment he had need of a song to lift his spirits. A few other bits and bobs had been maneuvered and rearranged in order to ensure he was in order to travel or however the two had envisioned a traveler might look given that few pass through the valley every now and again. 

By the end of the week, just as Orwin said, the Wordweaver had gathered the members of the village together for an impromptu celebration. There had been no information in regards to the nature of the celebration, but rumors had circulated with varying ideas of the reason behind it all. 

When all whispering had lowered to a soft murmur, Aldritch moved to stand before the congregation, his old age apparent in his calculated movements. “Friends and family,” he began, “and loving members of our community-- I wish to speak to you tonight on the topic of tradition.” The murmurs subsided as attention now focused fully on the Wordweaver. “I know many of you have been made aware of the discussions of travel beyond the valley through rumors or gossip, but have any of you taken the time to consider the good that it could bring to our village?” 

A few individuals cast glances about the crowds but most eyes fall on the obvious instigator of the subject in question. The tips of his ears grew hot with embarrassment, but a soft hand reached for his out of hopeful comfort and silent support. 

“I was only recently made aware of the positives of such an idea through the constant badgering of my great-grandson, Orwin. Most of you know him personally so you can attest to how often he’s spoken of one day traveling beyond the valley, finding adventure on his own terms, and returning here with new stories to tell and new songs to sing. I understand that the ones we’ve been telling and retelling to our children and their children and the generations to come are traditional, but those stories have evolved with time. The way we tell them now is in no way the same, word for word, as the way my great-grandfather used to tell them to me. Change is inevitable and I would rather not be the Wordweaver whose legacy forces the same resume upon future generations. Some of those stories are quite boring if I’m being honest.” 

A few sympathetic chuckles echoed throughout the crowd.

His point, while difficult for some to accept, couldn't be denied either. Change was a product of time. It was a product of adjustment to make things easier for people to understand or to make things more entertaining. Aspects of stories were naturally designed for certain periods of time and were altered according to the dynamic of the current generation. Some stories were cut short in order to satisfy the attention spans of younger children and lost the fullness of the tale in its entirety. Change could not be avoided, so what was the point of trying to stifle it? 

“That is why I have decided that it is in the best interest of our traditions if we allow change to shape it. Of course, the stories we choose to tell will never disappear and will continue to be told, but I welcome the opportunity of my future predecessor to live the tales he wishes to tell us. There is no telling what kind of adventures we will live to hear about, but I hope that in blessing his journey, we will be gifted with countless tales of heroism, excitement, and glorious victory. I hope all of you will join me in offering our blessings to Orwin Stormpipe as we send him off beyond the valley.” 

For a moment, the crowd remained silent. Hearing what the Wordweaver was saying and fully grasping the implications of his call to action was another. The murmured whispering slowly began to rise up once more until, at last, a small child rose from where they sat, cupping their hands over their mouth before calling out above the hushed conversation, “You have to tell us if you ride on a ship!” 

The call was quickly followed by the child sitting beside them, “--And if you meet anyone with horns!” Suddenly, calls were coming from left and right. Children had taken to requesting what it was they wanted to hear about. While the stories were similar to those they’d already heard, hearing them first hand drove their excitement. Within moments, adults and the elderly were coming forward to offer their blessings as well as make requests, albeit nervously, for things they wished to hear about. Even his own sisters couldn’t help themselves. It was as if everyone had questions with hopes that Orwin would return with answers, and he was determined to do what he could. 

What had originally meant to be a small send-off had lasted the better part of the evening. Dawn arrived sooner than anticipated as a result.

Tearful goodbyes echoed throughout the valley, wishing him well, urging him to return soon, and songs of “farewells” and “may we meet again’s”. It was the first time in a long time that anyone had heard the Valley of the Pipes as sorrowful yet hopeful as they did the day they sent their bard out into the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Orwin will always have a special place in my heart. He was the first character I played weekly in person. I made him for a campaign that my college's dnd club put together and he was so much fun to play! I have a ton of art for him filed away on my computer that I like to look at here and there because he's absolutely adorable. I'd love to bring him back one day, even if it's just for something small.


End file.
